


(Just Keep) Following the Heartlines

by crinklefries



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Manchester City, Olympic Lyonnaise, One-Shot, Real Madrid CF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crinklefries/pseuds/crinklefries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>[<i>and this fantasy, this fallacy, this tumbling stone |<br/>echoes of a city that’s long overgrown</i>]</p>
</div>AU. A rapper with a broken heart and a broken past and his footballer neighbor who is there to (unknowingly) help him fix it.
            </blockquote>





	(Just Keep) Following the Heartlines

**Author's Note:**

> **Ships:** Karim Benzema/Gonzalo Higuaín, Sergio Ramos/Iker Casillas ; (past/it’s complicated)—Yoann Gourcuff/Samir Nasri, Karim Benzema/Yoann Gourcuff, Sergio Ramos/Gonzalo Higuaín
> 
>  **Word Count:** 19,100 lmfao  
>  **Rating:** PG-16 for sexual situations and language

**january 2011.**

It’s strangely poetic, boxes lined against clean, bare walls. Everyone likes to think that the summation of their entire existence doesn’t lead to a single point, a lone instance, where they’re alone in an empty apartment with their life wrapped carefully and taped inside cardboard boxes. The carpet is bright white and completely new. There’s a large, glass door that leads onto a sprawling balcony. He can see his entire neighborhood from here, the line of towering houses and curved lawns, expensive cars parked on wide driveways, all shut in by wrought-iron gates with golden curves at the top. He doesn’t recognize half of the people opening and closing doors, but he should. He stares at a space between the glass door and the empty wall. He stares so long that he thinks he could bore a hole into the plaster if only he had the power to do so.

This hadn’t been his choice. He had wanted a small apartment, tucked into the corner of the city. His parents had disagreed. _Si vous allez vivre dans une ville, puis vivre dans la ville_ , they had said. They had boarded the plane with five of his eight siblings, helped settle his boxes around his unreasonably large house, cooked exactly a week’s worth of meals and stuck them in the refrigerator, given him a hug and a kiss, and promptly left. 

Now he’s left with his entire life assembled together in short towers that loom precariously around corners that should exist, but which have since disappeared into myth. There are empty stretches of plain white, enough brown cardboard and tape to make his vision swim, and not a single piece of furniture in sight.

“Bienvenue á Madrid,” Karim mutters to himself. 

He shrugs into a sweatshirt, laces up his sneakers, sticks his iPod in his pocket, and leaves. 

 

His neighborhood is all smoothly paved concrete and sloped lawns. The houses are spread, but close enough together that the total distance from the gates to the cul-de-sac at the end of the looped street is barely enough to break a breath, let alone a sweat. The morning air is almost unbearably cold, but he doesn’t like running in the evenings and he hasn’t worked up the nerve to find any gym secluded enough where he won’t be recognized by at least _someone_. He adjusts the snood around his neck, pulls his hood tight over his head and tugs on the tip of his sleeves so that they cover his cold hands. In retrospect he should have brought gloves, but he hasn’t a clue which box they might be buried in. 

Karim unwinds his earphones from around his iPod as he walks quickly through his neighborhood. There’s a park a block or two down, something he only knows because his mother had insisted on leaving him a map with the local parks, gyms, and recreational facilities on it. _Être en bonne santé, Karim. Ne pas retrouver votre poids_ , his mother had worried. Karim had ignored her for the cake his father had bought for them from the nearest bakery as a housewarming present. 

Now he sticks his earbuds in and scrolls through his various playlists until he finds his favorite workout mix. It’s part-rap and part-hip hop and not a single song that reminds him of his own. He prefers it that way.

He warms up on the way to the park, the walk there allowing him the chance to thaw before his feet even hit the grassy trail. By the time he stretches and begins jogging along the open path, he’s not cold anymore, but chilled. He clicks the volume button on the side and turns it up until French hip hop is blasting in his ears.

Karim runs at a steady pace. He’s not the fastest runner and he never has been, but he has enormous amounts of stamina. Once his music starts playing and his mind starts wandering, he can run for over an hour and forget to stop, although children pass him by easily on bicycles or just by playing tag. There was a time when he used to mind, but these days, running is the only thing that clears his mind at all. He likes the feel of the grass under his feet, the way his calves start to burn after a while and the feeling spreads through his thighs eventually. He likes feeling his heart beat rapidly, sometimes in his chest, other times higher, near his throat. He likes feeling overwhelmed by his whole body because then, and only then, does he forget to think. 

He’s running longer than he anticipated to, his eyes glazed over as Tupac provides steady beats that his feet can pound to in synchronicity. He doesn’t notice the person jogging next to him until he turns a particular corner and his feet slip on an icy patch that he doesn’t even notice. His legs buckle from under him and an earbud tugs out and he’s cursing in a stream of French before his body goes crashing sideways. 

He expects to feel the ground and sharply, but what he feels is the planes of another body, an arm wrapped around his side and, presently, loud, short bursts of laughter. 

“Cuidado!” comes the voice just before Karim feels his body being dragged up. 

His iPod’s fallen on the ground and he can hear Tupac shouting up at him, but Karim’s too busy scowling and massaging his ankle, which he hopes he hasn’t twisted. 

“Are you okay?” the man next to him asks quizzically. It’s only then that Karim remembers that he’s actually fallen _into_ someone and he looks up in embarrassment.

“Si,” he mutters, the only word coming to mind. His Spanish isn’t perfect by any means, but he can remember just enough from high school and online courses to get by. “Lo siento, I didn’t notice the ice.” 

“You’ve circled around enough times, I’m surprised this was the first time you slipped,” the other man laughs. He’s taller than Karim, short, brown hair cropped in either waves or curls to his head. Karim can’t tell which it is. His face is pink, possibly from running as well. He has a scarf wrapped thickly around his neck and a Real Madrid sweatshirt with arms that extend past his wrists. He’s wearing shorts. It’s freezing cold and he’s wearing shorts. Karim tries not to stare pointedly. 

“I forget to pay attention when I run,” Karim says with a shrug of his shoulder. He bends down to pick up his iPod. The other man shifts on his feet and when Karim straightens, he’s grinning and running his tongue over uneven front teeth. Karim blinks. He looks familiar, but he doesn’t know why. 

He puts his iPod in his pocket again and one earbud in his left ear. 

“Well thanks,” he nods to the stranger. He’s ready to finish his run, his body already tensed from anticipation. “And sorry again.”

Karim puts the second earbud in and takes off. His pace is even slower this time, he’s careful not to slip again. He’s been jogging for barely a minute when the other man catches up to him again. 

“You’re not done running yet?” the other man says, motioning for Karim to take his earbud out. He feels a twinge of annoyance and considers ignoring him altogether, but the man’s eyes are large and round and he looks eager to talk. 

Karim sighs and takes it out, figures he’s been running for long enough as it is. 

“I was just going to finish this lap,” he says with a shrug. And then, because he feels pressured, “You?”

“I’ve passed you more than a dozen times, but you didn’t notice at all,” the stranger says with a grin. He wrinkles his pink face. “I’m almost done too, though. You new here?”

Karim blinks. “How did you know?”

“I run at the same time every day,” the man says. “I’ve never seen you around.”

“Oh,” Karim says. He rolls his shoulders. The cold wind nips at his face and he’s annoyed by how fast his body’s cooling down already. “Yeah. I just moved here.” 

“Do you have a name?” the stranger eyes Karim in amusement. If he minds the monosyllabic answers, he doesn’t say anything. 

“Karim,” Karim answers. He says it nervously, although he has no reason to be nervous, not in Madrid. “Karim Benzema.”

The other man grins, a genuine smile that lights up his face.

“Gonzalo Higuaín,” the man says and extends his hand. Karim takes it and shakes it.

“I like your music,” he then adds with a mischievous grin. Karim’s mouth opens slightly and his cheeks heat from the need to explain himself, but he doesn’t get a chance. Gonzalo’s speaking again with that same, quirky grin. “And by the way, I’m your neighbor.”

 

Gonzalo does live next door, as it turns out. As it turns out, there’s also a very specific reason that he’s running in the early mornings and that reason is—

“You’re a footballer,” Karim says, staring blankly at the taller man. 

“That is what they tell me,” Gonzalo nods. They’re standing in his kitchen, since Karim’s is completely unfurnished. Gonzalo— _“Call me Pipita, actually, I can’t remember the last person outside of my family to use my real name”_ —had walked Karim home and then had insisted he come over for breakfast after his shower. Karim hadn’t actually had any food that didn’t belong to a home-cooked four course meal in his refrigerator anyway, so he had said yes. Now he stands at Pipita’s counter with a muffin and a blank expression on his face.

“What team?” Karim eyes Pipita with mistrust. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe him, per se, but there are reasons he came to Madrid and the foremost of those was to get away. From footballers. 

“Only the best one on the entire fucking planet,” Pipita says with pride. Karim stares. Pipita blinks. “No, really. No exaggeration.”

He points to his sweatshirt and Karim’s eyebrows nearly disappear into hair he doesn’t have.

“You play for Real Madrid?”

“That’s what they tell me!” 

“You. Play for Real Madrid.”

“Unless they’ve changed their name.”

“Vous jouez pour Real Madrid.”

“Saying it in French doesn’t change the fact mon petit baguette!” Pipita grins and takes a large bite of an apple. It’s bright red and shiny and Karim stares at Pipita’s reflection in it. Either he’s starstruck or the wheels in his head are turning even slower this morning than usual. He’s going to go with the latter and hope for the best. 

“Well I guess that’d explain why you look familiar,” Karim says. He shrugs and picks at the blueberries in his muffin. 

“Do you watch?” Pipita asks. 

“Not La Liga,” Karim answers. He stares at his muffin intently, as though debating the chemical properties of blueberries and sugar will make him forget the slow knot twisting in his stomach. He wants it to go away, but it’s been months now and he’s barely been blessed with a good night’s sleep, let alone a day without that familiar feeling gnawing away at him. “Ligue 1 mostly.” 

“What team?” Pipita asks. He takes another bite of his apple and gestures widely. He seems to do this a lot, as though his words cannot possibly be emphasized by anything less than large gestures of his hands and body. “I was born in France.”

“You were?” Pipita doesn’t look French to Karim. Not even close.

“In Brest,” Pipita nods. There’s apple juice running down the corner of his mouth. It’s a bit distracting. “I was only there for a year so it’s not like I remember it. I can’t even speak French. Well I know a few words—”

“Like mon petit baguette?” Karim asks with a wry smile, the first he’s given to Pipita. 

“Like mon petit baguette,” Pipita confirms.

“Wrong gender. Baguette is feminine.”

“Fuck,” Pipita scowls.

Karim smiles. 

He breaks off a corner of the muffin. He tries not to analyze the fat content in his head, although one very tough summer and a year of internal training has him hard put not to. “Lyon.”

“What?”

“I watched Lyon, they were my team.”

“Fucking Lyon,” Pipita glowers suddenly. “I mean no offense, but that fucking team is— _was_ the bane of my existence.”

“The Lyon curse?” Karim smiles. Pipita looks surprised. “We had reason to celebrate every year, I know some things.”

“Just not who’s on my team,” Pipita frowns. 

Karim shrugs. He sticks a blueberry in his mouth and chews on it. His stomach growls, he’s clearly hungry, but he thinks of the protein shake he has packed back at his house and meal replacements and—fuck, all he really wants is a fucking muffin. 

“Maybe you can teach me.” 

He breaks off a chunk of the muffin and sticks it in his mouth. When he looks up at Pipita, the other man is smiling, genuinely this time.

“What, really? You’d let a stranger introduce you to the crazy world of Spanish football?”

Karim grins and swallows his mouthful. The sweetness spreads in his mouth and he’s a little giddy from it. 

“You’re not a stranger,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a footballer.”

Pipita stares at him for just a second before he throws his head back and laughs. 

 

The studio is directly across the city. This wouldn’t be a terribly big deal if the city he had to cross wasn’t fucking Madrid. Madrid, Karim discovers, is a really fucking big city. He hasn’t had a chance to buy a proper car yet and he doesn’t feel like risking the metro when he’s been here less than a week. Instead, he has a rental for the next week and a half before his appointment at the dealership. The rental is a sleek, black Audi with a built-in GPS. There’s an option to change the language from Spanish to French, which he’s thankful for because navigating Madrid traffic is difficult enough without attempting to do so in a language he has the proficiency of a high schooler in.

It takes him nearly an hour to get there, not including the time it takes to correct his direction after he gets lost in his own neighborhood. He’s lucky that the appointment is flexible or, at least, that the executive producer is well enough acquainted with foreign musicians new to the city to accept “sometime in the morning” as an appropriate time frame.

He pulls into the parking lot of a large building behind a busy intersection filled with businessmen and tourists at the cusp between “the morning” and “the afternoon”. It isn’t technically lunchtime yet, so Karim figures his arrival can be more or less construed as legitimate. He parks the rental in the designated spot, kills the engine, and folds his sunglasses into his pocket so that he doesn’t look like a complete tool. He has no papers with him, no form of authentication except what’s in his wallet and a passport tucked into the inside front pocket of his blazer. He’s wearing it on top of a graphic t-shirt and jeans, shoes that don’t match and a large, golden watch on his wrist. Clearly he’s not _too_ worried about not looking like a tool, but he’s entering one of the largest recording studios in Madrid, so he’s sure it’s nothing they haven’t seen before. 

“Can I help you?” a beautiful woman with flowing—literally, flowing—brown hair greets him at the reception desk. Everything about the interior of the building is sleek, monochromatic in different shades of metallic and dark granite. Her name tag reads “Eva” and it’s displayed prominently on the breast of the little, black blazer she wears. Inside her blazer, her blouse is bright teal and she has her hair up in a ponytail that flows—literally, flows—onto her shoulders. She smiles at him, but it isn’t welcoming. 

Karim blinks and sighs to himself as he recalls the Spanish phrases slowly.

“I am looking for Senõr Casillas?” 

“Aren’t they all?” Eva says smartly. She begins typing something into the computer. “Name?”

“Karim Benzema,” Karim says. “I’m from—”

“Yes, the French rapper, I’m well aware,” Eva says with a curt little smile. Karim feels like asking her _why_ she asked his name in that case, but he refrains, mostly because he’s entirely certain that this petite, beautiful woman wouldn’t hesitate to cancel his appointment entirely and have security escorted out if need be. 

“Iker was expecting you a little earlier, you’re lucky he’s still in the building. He has lunch in a half an hour, so you’ll have to be quick. Through the sliding doors, take the elevator up to the second floor. Walk in past the double doors and turn down the hallway to your right. You’ll pass half-a-dozen sound booths—yes, half-a-dozen, don’t look so surprised, Mr. Benzema—before turning left. His office will be at the very end, large doors, engraved nameplate in gold that his brother insisted he get even though he didn’t want to. You can’t miss it. Any questions?” 

Karim doesn’t think he would be able to ask one even if he wanted to, so he shakes his head. 

Eva smiles that same, almost sinister smile at him. She extends a hand for him to shake. He takes it and she smirks. 

“Welcome to Santo de Móstoles Música.” 

 

There are more turns than Eva mentioned to him and Karim blames her entirely and not himself at all for the half dozen times he gets lost trying to navigate the winding hallways. As it turns out, there are sound booths and corners practically everywhere, so Eva’s directions are more confusing than a source of help. There’s wintry music blasting from speakers somewhere and Karim wrinkles his nose because Christmas music is bad enough in French in December, let alone in Spanish in January. He doesn’t know if someone’s recording it or if this is SMM’s version of elevator, company music, but either way he hopes the hallways end soon and deliver him from his misery. 

He manages to find the large door to Iker Casillas’s office on his third try and he notes that Eva was at least right about the gold plaque hanging on the door—it would be impossible to miss.

He knocks, almost tentatively—what is it about being in a new city that drives people into shells?—and what he’s answered with is a bark, albeit one with very little bite. 

“Adelante!”

Karim expects Iker Casillas to tower. He’s seen images, of course, because who hasn’t seen the iconic Santo de la Música engraved into every studio and music awards show from Madrid to Munich? Iker Casillas’ image is more prolific and only slightly less holy than the odd appearance of Jesus on slices of toast. So Karim expects him to tower, shoulders of his suit jutting out intimidatingly past his actual limbs, and sharp, black shoes that Karim can see his own reflection in. 

Iker Casillas in person, however, is far less intimidating. He’s a lot smaller than Karim had expected, for one. He wears a lot more plaid, for another. His shoes aren’t black or shiny and barely match jeans with rips near the bottom cuffs. Karim stares. 

“It’s been a complicated day,” Iker Casillas says, by way of explanation, first. He offers his hand with a good-natured grin second. “Karim, right? Iker. Nice to meet you.”

“It’s an honor,” Karim says. Iker’s handshake is firm. So is his stance and his gaze, although Karim’s not sure why this is particularly significant. 

“Likewise.” Iker gestures for Karim to sit on a lush, leather couch. He himself closes the door and winds around his large, modern desk to sit in his large, modern chair. He looks completely out of place. It makes Karim grin. “I’m surprised you made it out of Paris without more tabloid coverage.”

“I was living in Lyon, actually,” Karim says with a shrug. If he shrugs, it makes it seem like he cares less, or at least that’s his theory. “I switch between Paris and Lyon.”

“Paris has the bigger music industry. Is there any reason you were in Lyon?” Iker asks. He’s genuinely curious, Karim can tell.

“Family,” Karim says faintly. It’s not the whole truth, but he and Iker are professionals, so it doesn’t really matter.

“Well SMM is more than pleased to have you,” Iker says smoothly. “We’ve been trying to diversify our talents beyond flamenco and the usual Spanish pop. French rap is definitely a change, but that doesn’t mean there’s no room for it in Madrid.” 

“I don’t expect to make a Euro,” Karim says with a wry smile. 

Iker laughs and shakes his head. 

“You clearly don’t understand what studio you’re signing with yet,” Iker says. His laugh dims into a challenging smile. “But you will.”

It’s a threat and a promise and Karim believes both.

 

Madrid sprawls with life at all times of the day and night. Karim tries to ignore it long enough for Pipita to become concerned. The other man is plenty busy, rarely home because he’s training, playing matches, or traveling to training and matches. He’s gone every other weekend and frequently during the middle of the week. Karim mostly notices because it’s hard not to when Pipita’s face is one of the most well-known in Madrid. He’ll run to the market and see thos familiar features looking up at him from Marca constantly, accompanied by one or more exaggerated headlines about him and his teammates. It’s bemusing, but he’s used to it, in a sense.

At first, Pipita misses morning runs frequently throughout the week. Karim doesn’t particularly mind. He likes the time to himself. Then, he comes more consistently, begins meeting Karim before the sun’s even peeked out over the edge of the sky, even on days that he has morning practice.

“It conditions me for the rest of the day,” Pipita explains with a laugh. “Ronaldo’s always going on about the size of my ass, I’m going to take him for his money.”

“You bet him about your ass?” Karim asks, amused.

“Well Sergio did,” Pipita admits. Then brightens. “But he feeds me, so it’s basically the same thing.” 

Sergio, Karim learns, is Sergio Ramos, sometimes right-back, sometimes center-back, sometimes unwitting striker of Real Madrid. Pipita talks about him almost constantly. By their third week of running together, Karim knows Sergio about as well as he knows Pipita. The other man refers to him as his “Mejor Amigo”, but Karim has his doubts. 

By the end of January, Karim waits for Pipita in the mornings and Pipita shows up at his front door, in sweats and running shoes no later than 6:00 AM, every day. This, too, Karim doesn’t particularly mind.

**march 2011.**

He lays down three tracks in three months and calls it progress. Eva calls it “slow-as-shit” and Pipita calls it “well-you’ll-get-there-eventually”. Karim calls it frustrating and this is the definition Iker agrees with. 

He’s in the recording studio, headphones fit tightly against his ears. They squeeze the sides of his head. He’s forced himself into sobriety and his head hurts. There’s a tap on the window and a young man with large, round eyes and black hair that flips out in a way that makes him look vaguely like a really hot lesbian, signals the countdown. 

3-2-1—

He puts his fingers down and the green light goes on. Karim closes his eyes and focuses on the beats thumping in the room around him. He hears an introduction of chords and French-techno beats that he composed himself months back and has the distinct urge to tap his feet. This is followed distinctly by the urge to erase everything, call production to a halt, and make a rapid career change.

Too late. 

He belts out the lyrics as he’s memorized them, a rhythm easy and simultaneously harsh on his tongue. They’re forced at first, too much thought and not enough feeling. He frowns. He stops after the first chorus and lets the music fill the silence. He takes a breath and presses his palms to his eyelids until he sees dots. He forces himself to clear his mind, to push a familiar face to the back where he can’t reach it. 

The music stutters and he covers his headphones with his hands, pressing them harder against his ears. They’ll leave marks, but he doesn’t care. His words start again and this time they flow smoothly. His mouth forms the raps almost faster than he can say them. He spits them out, grinds them through his teeth, and feels more alive than he has in months. The red light flickers on almost too soon and he can see a thumbs up through the window from Mesut.

The intercom crackles on.

“That was great,” the young man says in slow, broken Spanish. He has a thick German accent and looks perpetually lost. He isn’t. Karim likes him. “But it is little, ah, forcing? At beginning.”

Karim nods. 

“Again?” he asks. 

“Por favor,” Mesut smiles. 

Karim nods again and, this time, relaxes. 

 

“We won,” Pipita grins. He’s flushed and vaguely swaying on his feet, clearly exhausted. It’s almost midnight and he’s at Karim’s front door. Karim answers in sweatpants and no shirt because he hadn’t been expecting anyone. 

Pipita raises an eyebrow. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Congrats,” Karim says, genuinely. Then he frowns in confusion. “No?”

“Oh,” Pipita nods. His face curves into a bright, pleased smile. “So come out with us.”

“Us?” Karim asks. 

“The boys,” Pipita grins. “I told you I’d teach you about them, didn’t I?” 

“It’s midnight,” Karim points out.

“Exactly,” Pipita agrees and shoves him inside his house to get dressed. 

 

Footballers, Karim discovers, are a loud, borderline-obnoxious, borderline-drunk breed. There’s a tall loud one named Álvaro, a dumb loud one named Raul, two just loud ones named Marcelo and Pepe who honestly seem to be interchangeable, the infamous Sergio, and a blond named Guti who keeps trying to feel Karim up, presumably because he thinks it’s funny. They’re all dressed in nothing less than the flashiest clothes and most expensive shoes and seem immune to the cameras as they’re easily let through the front doors of whatever club Pipita’s dragged them to.

All of them speak too loud and too fast until they’re swimming in drinks and Karim’s handed something so clear and so clearly high in alcoholic content that he can feel his liver shrink at the very smell.

“I don’t drink,” he tries to tell Sergio, who seems to be the one plying everyone with drinks, but Sergio just laughs and shakes his head. Pipita leans in and whispers something into his ear. Sergio colors and grins, leans back and replies in the other man’s ear. Everyone else is already too drunk to notice, but Karim isn’t and so he does. 

 

Guti tries to engage him in conversation. 

“What do you mean you haven’t fucked anyone in months?” the blond’s bright blue eyes are electric and bright in the hazy, popping multicolored lights of the club. He looks a touch shocked and a bit frazzled. He leans into Karim drunkenly. 

“I have been with anyone since my last—” Karim catches himself here and shrugs. “—relationship.”

“Fuck. That,” Guti pronounces clearly. 

Karim blinks.

“Excuse me?” 

“ _Fuck that_ ,” Guti emphasizes, then laughs, leaning heavily into Karim’s shoulder even more. He gestures behind their group toward a cluster of well-dressed women eyeing them. “I mean fuck _that_. Them. Whatever.”

Karim’s unsure, but after watching Pipita and Sergio whisper close together and unabashedly share touches and looks for an hour, he doesn’t think it’s such a bad idea after all.

He leaves with a blonde—it’s always a blonde. Pipita doesn’t think he sees him and Sergio kissing in the corner, but he does. 

 

Karim fucks the blonde twice and lies awake that night, unsatisfied. He has a certain, recurring image in his mind he can’t get out and he feels like throwing up. 

At five in the morning, his phone lights up with a text message. 

He shifts his body over to his bedside table and drags his iPhone toward him. He reads the message and just like that, he’s awake. He reads the message, stumbles into the bathroom and heaves into the toilet. 

That’s how it begins. Again.

* * *

**before.**

It begins at Christmas, like most things. 

He’s ten years old and playing at the end of the street for lack of anywhere better to play, because he’s Algerian and that’s barely enough to qualify his family as a group of human beings. His friend’s late, a small boy with a mischievous smile and fast words named Samir.

There’s another boy walking by, trailing his parents with a small football in hand. He’s wearing a Christmas sweater with Père Nöel knit carefully on it. He has a scowl on his fair face, shocking dark hair that frames high cheekbones and large, expressive brown eyes. He’s beautiful. 

Just before he turns the corner, he looks up. He stares at Karim, who stares back. Next to him, Karim feels a tug on his elbow. Samir. 

“Qui est-ce?” Samir asks. « _Who’s that?_ »  
Karim shrugs. 

The beautiful boy smiles. 

 

Fourteen years later, Karim still can’t forget that boy, although, apparently, Yoann has no trouble forgetting him.

* * *

**april 2011.**

It’s against his better judgment. Most things are against his better judgment, but especially this.

He speaks rapidly into the phone, the trace of a smile on his face. It’s light and takes up more space than he means for it to. Pipita’s on the couch they bought last weekend because the Argentine had finally gotten tired of coming in to Karim’s empty house. 

[ _“I don’t know how to furniture shop,” Karim had told him, point-blank._

_“You look at furniture and pick what you like, what’s to know?” Pipita had insisted. He had that look, that stubborn one, the one that’s accompanied by crossed arms and furrowed eyebrows just to prove how much he means it._

_“Everything,” Karim had replied._

_“Vous es un idiot,” Pipita had countered in perfectly butchered French._

_“Tu es terrible en français,” Karim had snorted._

_Pipita had won, but that hadn’t really been a surprise._ ]

There are at least three gaming systems lying on the floor in front of a massive plasma TV, all in various states of being suffocated by wires. Pipita’s managed to hook up one of them—Karim has no idea which one—and is playing FIFA. Currently Barcelona’s losing to Real Madrid, much to Pipita’s loud delight. 

“Non, je ne sais pas.” « _No, I don’t know_ » he says, shaking his head. He leans against the counter to the empty bar in the living room and watches his friend. “Quand? Non, dites-moi.” « _When? No, tell me._ »

“Don’t you know it’s rude to talk in a language I can’t understand?” Pipita whines from the couch. Karim’s about to answer when the other man’s eyes widen. 

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck no no no—” he springs up from the couch, controller in his hand, and scoots toward the television. Karim raises an eyebrow in concern.

“Non, Yoann, juste mon ami.” « _No Yoann, just my friend_ » he says, with a slight shake to his head. “Il est Pipita. Rappeles-tu? Je t’ai dis sur lui.” « _It’s Pipita. Remember? I told you about him._ »

“Fuck you, Dani Alves, you piece of shit!” Pipita curses at the screen. He groans and falls back onto the couch dramatically. Then he twists around to face Karim. “I heard my name, who are you shittalking me to?” 

“Ouais,” Karim grins. Yoann sounds annoyed on the other end, but Pipita’s making faces at him and trying to crane over the edge of the couch to reach for his phone. Karim back up out of the way. Pipita scowls and tries to extend his arm further. His face turns red from the effort. “Non—écoutes, Yoann, je dois aller.” « _No—listen, Yoann, I have to go._ »

“Yoann?” Pipita perks up. “Who’s Yoann? Yoann the footballer? Who’s Yoann?”

Karim ignores him with a small smile.

“Téléphones-moi plus tard? Non, je n’oublierai pas. Tu me manques aussi. Au revoir.” « _Call me later? No, I won’t forget. I miss you too._ »

As soon as Yoann ends the conversation, Pipita’s arms drop. He looks exhausted from the effort. Karim snorts and looks at the television. 

“You let them tie you?” 

“ _No_ , you let them tie me,” Pipita says emphatically. 

“What did I do?” 

“You distracted me. With your French. Fuck you. And your French. Who’s Yoann?” 

“Va te faire foutre,” Karim says, ignoring the question again. He leaves his cell phone on the counter and takes a seat on the couch next to Pipita.

Pipita scrunches his body into a somewhat proper sitting position, although he’s still half sprawled against Karim’s side. 

“What?”

“Fuck you,” Karim grins. “In French.”

“Mon dieu!” Pipita exclaims. He grabs his controller and shoves it at Karim while he reaches for another one just lying on the floor in the middle of the mess of wires. “What a terrible mouth you have on you. We’ll have to wash it out with Orangina.”

“Where have you been learning your French stereotypes?” Karim snorts. He stops the game Pipita was playing and scrolls through the teams listed. He pauses at Lyon and remembers Yoann’s voice. His heart skips a beat at the same time his stomach clenches. He moves past them and settles on Lille. 

“Wikipedia,” Pipita says promptly. He scrolls through and picks River Plate this time. “And Sergio.” 

Karim rolls his eyes. “I should have known.”

They play a leisurely game, at least until River Plate scores a hat trick and Karim’s left cursing loudly in French. Pipita’s cackling into his side and Karim manages to jam enough buttons on the controller to get one in past River’s keeper. 

Pipita scowls this time and shoves his elbow into Karim’s side. 

“Joder!” Benzema curses in Spanish. 

Pipita stops long enough to turn and stare at Karim in pleased surprise.

“ _The French can be taught_!” he exclaims.

Karim snorts and nods at the screen.

“And the Argentines _can_ be beat.” 

He rounds off his first goal with a hattrick in the time it takes Pipita to realize his mistake and by the time the referee blows the whistle, the score is 5-4 to Karim, but it doesn’t matter because they’re both too busy laughing into one another’s shoulders. 

 

He lays down two more tracks, this time within a month. They’re fast with harsh melodies, but he sounds like he’s singing about something, like he’s rapping for a reason or a purpose. He sees Mesut tapping his fingers along to the beat one day and it makes him smile. Iker says he looks inspired. Karim thinks he feels inspired, but he also thinks he’s deluding himself. 

Yoann calls him again and he pinches the bridge of his nose and answers the phone. He sounds lighthearted and happy, but that feeling in his stomach grows heavier. 

It’s a little hard to breathe and it’s because he isn’t dealing with it at all. He pushes it to the back of his mind, like most things, and says hello.

“Bonsoir á tu aussi, Yoann,” « _Hello to you too, Yoann_ » Karim says breathlessly. “Comment va-tu?” « _How are you?_ »

 

Sergio calls him one day to invite him to watch the team train. Karim’s at the grocery store, cell phone held between his shoulder and his ear. He’s looking at two different cans in confusion and wondering how he can possibly tell which bean will taste different from the other. He blinks at the cans and puts both into his cart. 

“You want me to what?” 

“Come to training. Pip won’t shut the fuck up about you and you never come out with us, so come watch us practice.”

“Is this a ploy to force me out with you guys tonight?” Karim asks skeptically. Now he’s staring at two different melons. They look identical, but the labels tell him otherwise.

“Most likely, yes.” 

“You don’t know how to lie do you?” 

“Mostly likely, no.” 

Karim snorts and puts the melons back. He moves toward the aisle with all of the pasta and carbohydrates because at least those he can identify and make. Theoretically. Spain confuses him. 

“It’s open practice,” Sergio says on the other end of the line. “We’ll go for a few drinks after, it’ll be good for you.” 

“How do you know what’s good for me?” Karim asks quizzically. He doesn’t know why he asks these things because Sergio, like Pipita, never gives him an answer he likes. 

“Pipa talks a lot.”

Karim shakes his head. “Don’t I know it.”

 

Watching Real Madrid practice is a bit unlike anything else Karim’s ever experienced. Valdebebas is a monolith of Real Madrid history, much like everything else Real Madrid, Karim is quickly coming to discover. He remembers watching Yoann and Samir practice from the stands, one in white and the other with a bright purple bib over his Olympique Lyonnais training shirt. Olympique Lyonnais is an immense emblem in Lyon, but Karim thinks he never understood the importance and gravity of football until Pipita introduced him to Real Madrid. 

They don’t let him sit in the stands. He stands awkwardly near benches where the reserve goalkeepers in yellow talk to him and ask him too many questions for his liking. There’s a tall young man with extremely tall hair who introduces himself as Callejón. 

“I’ve listened to your music,” Callejón grins at him as they both watch the rest of the team play five-a-side. 

“That’s impossible,” Karim frowns.

“Because it’s Madrid?” Callejón’s grin widens. It takes over his face and somehow his hair stands even taller than it had a minute ago. “Don’t underestimate Madrid, Karim Benzema.” 

He pats Karim on the shoulder as their coach—José Mourinho, a man with an intimidating scowl and somewhat sardonic tendencies—yells for him. He looks back at Karim with a smile as he jogs over to his team, bright orange bib nearly blinding in contrast to the white Real Madrid training jersey.

“Also, don’t underestimate Sergio Ramos.” 

 

Karim realizes, only too late, that Callejón’s words were not just advice, but deep and philosophical life lessons. Sergio’s idea of a “few drinks” include another hot, Madrid nightclub with too many lights and too many bodies pressed close together. The group of them sit in a corner and have to lean in close together to hear shouts any quieter than the highest decibel processed by human ears. Once again, they’re plied with drinks until everyone’s somewhere near the upper end of the alcoholic’s version of the Kinsey scale. Sergio’s on the dance floor, body pressed close to a tan woman with long, dark hair. His hands are on her waist and her bright, white teeth are showing a little too much. He leans forward to murmur in her ears and Pipita downs a shot next to Karim. 

Karim looks over at his friend and, for the first time since he’s known him, he thinks that Pipita looks something less than deliriously content with life. He tries to hide the flickers of disapproval on his face, but Karim’s too well-acquainted with the same thing. He can see the cracks in Pipita’s mask because he’s learned to spot them in himself.

“Hey, do you, uh—” Karim leans over to Pipita, then stops, embarrassed.

“Yeah?” Pipita’s eyes are still on Sergio, but he’s listening.

“Dance?” Karim hopes it doesn’t sound half as bad as he thinks it does. 

Pipita seems to consider this. He shakes his head slightly and tears his eyes away from Sergio. He downs another shot and grins. 

“Yeah, let’s do it.” 

They end up on the dance floor, somewhat close together. There are women surrounding them, which obviously makes it okay. Karim’s not a very good dancer, but even his body starts to sway to the trashy Europop. He grins as Pipita laughs and dances closer to him. They both look ridiculous, but neither of them seem to care. There’s a blonde on either side of Pipita and one with arms wrapped around Karim’s back. He’s not even drunk, but he thinks he might be channeling it. 

Suddenly, the music transitions from one technobeat to something else. 

Karim freezes at the sound of his own voice. 

“What’s wrong?” the blonde pressed against him asks in his ear, but he shakes his head. His face is hot. He hates listening to himself. 

It takes Pipita all of a minute to realize this too. At first it’s all grins and gesturing to everyone to shut the fuck up and listen to the French rap blasting over the expensive sound system. Then he sees Karim’s face and stops. 

Karim shakes his head in embarrassment and that’s when Pipita grabs his upper arm.

“All right, let’s get out of here,” he says. Karim protests, but Pipita ignores him. He signals to Sergio that they’re leaving, but Sergio’s too busy with his conquest. Karim can feel Pipita’s shoulders tense, but once they’re out in the warm Madrid air, it doesn’t matter so much. 

“Fuck, it’s like I’m with an international celebrity,” Pipita laughs, leaning into Karim as they both walk down the block. They’re looking for a corner to motion for a cab. 

“Is that what you say to yourself everyday?” Karim asks. His shoulders are still tense, his stomach tight from being so self-conscious. He’s possibly the world’s worst celebrity. Pipita manages to flag down a taxi and they both pile in. They give the driver their addresses and Karim rolls down the window to get some fresh air. 

He sticks his head out and breathes in deeply, once, twice, three times. 

“Hey, are you okay?” the other man asks, concerned. He’s pressed close to Karim’s side and Karim can’t breathe. 

He shakes his head no. 

“Yoann,” he mutters. 

Pipita looks concerned. He puts a hand on Karim’s shoulder, as though he can shake him from whatever pain he’s in.

“What about Yoann, Benz?”

It reminds him of Yoann, Karim thinks.

To be fair, though, everything reminds him of Yoann.

* * *

**before.**

They were French, so of course they called themselves _Les Trois Mosquetaires_. Samir and Karim had known each other longer, but Yoann was the one who commanded their attention. He was forceful from the beginning, a young, beautiful boy with a strong personality. When he fluttered those eyelashes, it wasn’t just Samir and Karim who would fall over themselves for him, but nearly everyone—at school, at the playground, even adults. 

He had the money, sure, but it was more than that. Yoann had imagination, he had creativity, he loved football with a passion that was unrivalled by anything else anyone else could do. He joined Olympique Lyonnais’s youth squad at a young age and convinced both Samir and Karim to try out with him. The three of them were selected over dozens of other boys their age. They were invincible, they were unbreakable. Yoann and Samir were his entire life and he was theirs.

 

What he and Samir had was special, but what he and Yoann had was special too. Sometimes, when Samir would have extra practice or when his parents, professors by profession, would keep him home to finish his homework, Karim would ride his bicycle over to Yoann’s house. He’d climb up through the window and they’d lay on Yoann’s bed, Karim’s head against Yoann’s chest and Yoann’s body half hanging off the edge of his bed, and listen to CDs. 

Yoann preferred pop, but Karim loved rap. He would lay there and compose rap after rap off the top of his head. Yoann would laugh in that way that would make Karim’s chest contract and face light up. After a while, Yoann stopped laughing and really started listening. 

One day, he pushed Karim’s head off his chest and sat up.

“What are you doing playing football?” he had asked, eyes narrowed. 

Karim had frowned, had sat up as well because he felt like he had angered Yoann, somehow. 

“What do you mean?” he asked nervously. “I’ve been scoring, you’ve seen—”

“No, not that,” Yoann waved his hands impatiently. “What are you doing playing football when you should be rapping?” 

Karim looked at Yoann skeptically. 

“Rapping?”

“Merde! You have a talent here, don’t you see, imbécil? Stop kicking around a stupid football and do what you love.” Yoann had taken Karim’s face in between his hands and laughed, but he had looked earnest, in the way he did when he truly believed in himself or in an idea. 

“Who’s going to listen to me rap?” Karim asked, disbelieving.

“ _Everyone_ , mon dieu. Listen to yourself, you sound like my mother. Everyone’s going to listen to you one day, Karim. You’ll be played all around the world. Here, Paris, Munich, London, _Madrid_. You won’t be able to go into a club without hearing yourself.” Yoann’s eyes had glazed over and he had gestured widely as though he could see it, as though he could truly see the future. Karim, cynical though he was, had watched Yoann and thought, for just a moment, that he could see it too.

 

He thinks he realized it the year Samir went away. His parents had been transferred to England—Manchester, specifically—to teach a one-year seminar course at the university there. Yoann threw the party. 

They were teenagers, so of course there was everything there shouldn’t be—too much alcohol and too many hormones. Samir found himself dancing with classmates and Karim found himself watching Yoann through alcohol-induced, heavy lidded eyes. He didn’t think he was obvious. He thinks, later, it must have been obvious that he was drunk or Yoann was drunk or that they were both, just drunk.

He thinks, in retrospect, it must have been obvious that the lack of Samir had something to do with it. 

They ended up in Yoann’s parents’ room, drunk and on top of each other, pushing at clothing until strong planes of chests and not-yet-toned stomachs glowed pale in the dim light. They never made it very far. Yoann pinned Karim to the bed and tugged his jeans off, pressed a hand through his boxers until Karim was writhing on the bed, one hand clenched in Yoann’s hair. 

Yoann took him into his mouth and gave him his first head, but it wasn’t romantic. He thinks it was never _supposed_ to be romantic, he was never supposed to develop those feelings. But then Samir left and Yoann and Karim found themselves alone more and more often. 

 

The first time they slept together, Karim’s heart had pounded loudly in his chest the entire time. After they had both finished and come down off of their highs, when they were lying on top of the covers, Karim’s body tucked close to Yoann’s, his head on Yoann’s chest, the other boy had laughed.

“We’re not _gay_ or anything, you know. We just. Have needs and shit.” 

He had laughed easily, like it had barely meant a thing at all. 

Karim had laughed too, because not laughing would have been too obvious.

He had closed his eyes because he had known, even then, how fucked he was. 

He thinks, now, that he had known, even then, how fucked he’d been since the first day he laid eyes on Yoann Gourcuff.

* * *

**may 2011.**

His first mistake is telling Pipita that he’s done recording his album. He’s nervous enough as it is, twelve tracks in five months and he doesn’t know if he’s recorded anything with feeling, let alone story. Mesut assures him that it’s wonderful, but Mesut also thinks recording Christmas songs in May is a wonderful idea, so Karim isn’t completely sold on trusting his word. 

Pipita’s thrilled. He had been moping around his house on his free days, ever since Real Madrid went out to Barcelona during the semi-finals of the Champions League. He had come home and smashed his FIFA game with a hammer the first weekend and Karim had spent two days feeding Pipita and nursing him back into some semblance of human. For the first time in weeks, he sounds genuinely happy. 

“Really? Hey, can I come? Can Sergio come? Sergio really wants to come, I think you should say yes and let Sergio come.”

Karim snorts. 

“When have I ever had a choice in the matter?”

“Never.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“I’m not,” Pipita says. “I’m clarifying.”

“Want to clarify over dinner?” Karim asks. He has leftovers in his refrigerator he needs to get rid of and he has since learned that Pipita is a veritable disposal for any and all foods. 

“Are you feeding me?”

“Do I have a choice?” 

“No.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“I’m not,” Pipita says. “I’m clarifying.”

 

They decide to come on a Friday. Sergio lounges on Karim’s couch for a full hour while Pipita makes the most elaborate breakfast known to man and Karim tries not to choke on his protein shake from nerves. 

“When you become a famous rapper, can I say that I knew you first?” Sergio asks lazily. He’s flipping through the channels, legs dangling off the couch. “Don’t forget the little people, asshole, make sure to take me clubbing.”

“Does he ever think of anything else?” Karim asks Pipita. The Argentine shrugs, incredibly intent on making the perfect Spanish omelet. Karim cranes his head over toward his couch. “Do you ever think of anything else?”

“Nope,” is Sergio’s response as he continues and stops on Animal Planet to watch a morning special on puppies. “Remember what I said. My career ends when I hit thirty-four, I’m going to need someone to mooch off of.”

Karim downs his drink and winces from the aftertaste. 

“And your solution is me.”

“You’re French, but you’ll do,” Sergio gives a thumbs up from the couch.

“Who’s the asshole now?”

“Mmm,” is Sergio’s response. He grins at puppies rolling around on the ground together. “Still you.”

 

Karim drives them both in his Audi—he had decided, at the end of his lease, that he liked his model so much that he wanted to buy it—cutting through Madrid traffic easily now. He gets to the studio in plenty of time. He cuts the engine and parks in a spot designated for recording artists. 

“Fucking fancy,” Sergio lets out a low whistle as the three of them climb out of the car. They enter the building and Eva has to keep herself from visibly rolling her eyes. 

Karim gives her a small smile—they’ve made peace, him and Eva. Every once in a while, she’ll even give him simple directions and a half-smile that isn’t completely sardonic. It doesn’t happen often, but they’re a work in perpetual progress.

Sergio eyes her appreciatively and even Eva looks somewhat interested, so Karim hastens them toward the elevators as fast as he can. Pipita doesn’t seem to have noticed, although the way his hand encircles Sergio’s wrist tells Karim otherwise. He’s still waiting for Pipita to admit their relationship to him, but he supposes being a gay footballer is even more taboo than being a gay rapper, so Karim waits and never addresses it.

They find the sound booths easily and Karim taps on the window of his usual one. Mesut is concentrating on another artist, but he looks back and smiles when he sees Karim. He gives a short little wave before returning to his duty at hand. They walk through the hallways to the mixing studio, which is just down the hallway from Iker’s office. 

“What’s that?” Sergio asks, typically. He peers around Karim’s shoulder at the engraved gold plaque across the hallway. 

“Iker Casillas’ office,” Karim says. Pipita’s eyes widen just as Sergio lets out a low whistle. 

“ _The_ Iker Casillas? Santo de la Música? Fuck, he signs the best new artists. What are _you_ doing here?” Sergio asks. Pipita nudges his side. Karim rolls his eyes. “What are the chances Niña Pastori’s going to walk in? Is my hair okay? Should I fix it?”

“Work on your personality first,” Karim smirks. 

Sergio pointedly ignores him and sets about fixing his hair. The door to the mixing studio opens and, much to Karim’s surprise, it isn’t Khedira, but Iker himself who emerges. 

They meet at the door, blinking in surprise. 

“Karim, we were just running through your tracks,” Iker says, extending his hand. Karim takes it to shake in greeting. “They sound good, although the last one needs a touch up. You taper off near the end of the third refrain.”

“Sure. I brought a few friends to listen. Is that okay?” he asks.

“As long as they don’t leak them,” Iker says with a smile. He’s not wearing plaid today, although there’s a signature scarf wrapped around his neck. His suit jacket is a little big on him and he’s still wearing jeans. He looks more composed than usual, which, Karim thinks, must mean he’s expecting another potential recording artist. 

Iker adjusts his scarf particularly. Then he actually sees Pipita and Sergio. 

Karim’s not sure who does the double-take first—Iker or Sergio. He thinks it’s simultaneous, the way Sergio’s eyes widen at the same time Iker’s mouth drops open. Next to them, Pipita looks pleased, but confused. 

“Sergio Ramos and Gonzalo Higuaín?” Iker blinks. “These are your friends?” 

“Not by choice,” Karim mutters. Pipita shoves a finger against his side and he tries his best not to squirm in front of his boss. 

“You know who we are?” Sergio asks, coolly. He’s using that tone Karim hates, the tone that’s trying to be too smooth and ends up sounding particularly toolish. Karim rolls his eyes and this time, Pipita joins him. Sergio knows his answer already, he’s just fishing now. 

“I’ve been a Madridista since I was born,” Iker smiles. It’s a bit nauseating, the diameter of Sergio’s smile. It’s not ungenuine and that’s possibly worse. Pipita stiffens next to Karim and Karim squeezes his elbow without thinking. “My grandfather’s a socio. I try to go to every game, but sometimes business takes me elsewhere.”

“Running the world of music stops for no man,” Sergio laughs. It’s charming. Pipita’s fingers find Karim’s and they squeeze so tightly that Karim feels his hand losing feeling at the tips. 

“Not nearly as important as wearing that escudo,” Iker says with a smile. His eyes glint with feeling. He means it. 

Sergio touches the place where Iker’s heart is. Iker looks surprised. Sergio touches people, it’s his way of connecting, Karim knows. Iker doesn’t. He blinks and Karim can see color creeping up his neck. 

“It isn’t about wearing it,” Sergio says softly. He withdraws his hand and Karim thinks he can feel it himself. 

Pipita turns his head, but he doesn’t miss the way Sergio and Iker look at one another.

**june 2011.**

It happens almost too fast for him to realize it. It’s a text message in the morning, a text message at night, a phone call in the afternoon when he’s bored. He keeps his phone in his front jacket pocket and when he’s in the studio and it vibrates against his chest, he knows it isn’t Pipita or Sergio or even Iker. 

“Tu n’as pas répondu.” « _You didn’t answer._ » Yoann’s voice is sharp and bitter on those occasions when Karim can’t answer because he’s re-recording or taking an interview with a magazine. 

“Je travaillais.” « _I was working_ » Karim answers, apologetically. He has no reason to apologize, but he feels bad anyway. Something twists in his chest, but Yoann is never forgiving about it. 

He flickers between happiness and nausea. It’s a familiar feeling, a tug-of-war between what he wants, what he thinks he wants, and what he gets. One day, he logs onto his Facebook. He has thousands of mentions from fans, but what he sees is a message, a simple one, from Yoann to Samir. He feels it again, that hot, debilitating swoop that cripples his ability to think. He almost deletes his Facebook.

He doesn’t. Instead, he tells Pipita to change his password for him. Pipita does and never asks why. 

 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Pipita asks one day. It’s the beginning of June and his flight home is the next day. They spend the day lounging around Karim’s house, alternating between playing FIFA and picking at what food is left in Karim’s fridge. 

Pipita gets restless and suggests they go for a walk. It’s nice outside, so Karim doesn’t mind. Pipita wears a graphic t-shirt of a Hollywood legend he’s never watched, a shirt he borrowed from Sergio. Karim wears a gold chain around his neck because he thinks he’s funny.

“We both look like assholes,” Pipita says as they pass a young mother pushing her baby in a carriage. 

“It’s probably something we should just embrace,” Karim grins. He stops them both just outside of the park and takes out his phone. He’s terrible at this, but he tells Pipita to lean in close. 

He takes the picture on the count of three. Pipita’s face is half out of the frame, but is covered by an enormous smile anyway. His arm is around Karim’s shoulder. Karim’s holding his fingers up in a peace sign. His head is almost tilted back onto Pipita’s shoulders. He purses his lips, although he looks like he’s going to laugh. He always looks like he’s going to laugh with Pipita.

He posts it to his Facebook account without thinking.

> _Bonjour, hola, hello, salam. Avec mon bon ami, Gonzalo Higuaín ou “Pipita”._

He doesn’t really think much of it until he receives a text.

>   
> **From:** Yoann Gourcuff
> 
> “Juste” des amis, non? Bien essayé.  
>  « _“Just” friends, no? Nice try._ »

It happens, just like that, an old familiar feeling, the panic at Yoann being angry at him, for whatever reason. Karim breathes in harshly through his nose, covers his face with his hands while Pipita rolls the football they’ve been playing with to a stop.

He looks at Karim sympathetically.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Pipita asks. “It’s Yoann.”

Karim runs a hand over the smooth skin of his head. He shakes his head, but his body says it anyway. 

“Hey, Benz?” Pipita says. Karim looks up just as Pipita flicks the ball up in the air. He catches it with his foot and lets it down gently on the ground. Karim shakes his head, but Pipita shrugs. He lets out a low sigh and stretches his arms above his head.

“I like Sergio more than he likes me,” Pipita says with a sad smile. He passes the ball to Karim and Karim catches it with the tip of his shoes, just like he used to when he played. “Your turn.”

* * *

**before.**

They grow up. Isn’t that how the story always goes? Samir comes back and Yoann becomes even more devastatingly beautiful and they grow up. Karim stops attending football, but Samir and Yoann don’t. It’s a joke that they have with each other, a bond over the love of a sport Karim loves too, just not as much. They’re still _Les Trois Mosquetaires_ , but the smile Yoann gives Samir and the smile Samir gives Yoann is different from what they share with him. 

Yoann never sleeps with Samir, but Karim doesn’t think it’s for lack of wanting to. 

Both Yoann and Samir are called up into the first team at Lyon. They’re ecstatic. Of course they’re ecstatic. They’re happy and they’re drunk on Yoann’s porch. Samir laughs and leans into Yoann and Yoann’s hand finds its way onto Samir’s back. He’s drunk enough to not notice, at first, but then Yoann slips his hand under Samir’s shirt. He laughs, uncomfortably, and then picks himself off the porch. 

When he tells Karim and Yoann that he has to call his girlfriend, Karim knows from the way Yoann looks—stricken and completely hurt—that he hadn’t known either. 

Samir stumbles away and Yoann looks at the lines in his palms, as though just by willing, he can change them to read something else. 

Karim puts a hand on Yoann’s shoulder and this time, he’s the one who whispers in Yoann’s ear. 

“Vien avec moi.”  
« _Come with me._ » 

Yoann’s parents aren’t home—they’re never home—so they don’t make it up to his bedroom. They fuck against the stairs and Yoann pounds into him hard, makes the stairs dig into Karim’s back until he’s bruising and nearly crying out from pain. Yoann’s the one with the wet face, though, so Karim lets him take his body, abuse it the way he needs to and when his body goes limp on top of Karim’s own, Karim strokes his hair and lets Yoann breathe in heavily against his neck. Karim presses a kiss to Yoann’s hair and Yoann shakes his head and jerks away.

He knows then, but it doesn’t stop him.

It never stops him, and that’s the entire problem.

 

Samir moves back to Manchester, but this time for good. He transfers to Manchester City, a team he had a one-year love affair with, so many years ago but never forgot. Yoann is heartbroken. He’s not a teenager anymore and self-destruction is out of the question, but he’s gay and he’s heartbroken and for a famous football player, that almost amounts to the same thing. 

Karim manages to start his own career. He has talent, just like Yoann said he did, and it’s not hard work, charming audiences with his music. He feels alive when he’s in front of the crowd, when he’s belting out lyrics like they come to him naturally, which they do. He feels an energy deep inside, he grows bigger than himself so fast he can barely keep up.

But there’s always Yoann, and that’s the entire problem.

 

It doesn’t happen fast and quick. It happens slowly, in excruciating progression, until Yoann has complete control of his heart and body and Karim doesn’t remember how to breathe on his own anymore. He has a house in Lyon and a house in Paris and concerts in multiple cities in between on the weekends. Yoann has games during the week and on most Saturdays. They barely see each other and it’s like a knife twisting in Karim’s gut. He craves Yoann, waits for his phone call, sits in his hotel room with his hands covering his face and barely listens when Samir calls to talk to him. 

He’s in love, he realizes, and it’s the hardest fucking thing because Yoann is too, just not with him. 

 

Samir comes back home for the holidays one year and Yoann stops calling Karim for an entire month. They barely speak, let alone fuck. Karim thinks, this is the end of a relationship, and Yoann says, it never was one. 

They’re at a Christmas party at the Nasri household when Karim sees Yoann catch Samir under mistletoe. 

This time, Yoann moves forward. He catches Samir’s face in the palm of his hand, looks at him in a way that’s so familiar to Karim he can feel it in his toes. This time Samir hesitates, but doesn’t move away. 

That’s when Karim knows. 

 

He’s in love, Karim realizes, and it’s the hardest fucking thing, so he packs every single thing he owns, tells his parents, and moves to Madrid. 

He never tells Yoann, but Yoann knows. Yoann always knows.

[PART II](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/15271.html)

**july 2011.**

Karim leaves Madrid and goes back to France to play Paris and then tour the French Riviera. His welcome is almost larger than it was initially, when he had left his country. He spends a month along the coast, a month spreading his own gospel, visits his parents for a week and flies back to Madrid. 

This time, he can barely step out without someone recognizing him. He finds his face staring up at him from newsstands occasionally and it’s a strange sensation, that all of his dreams are somehow coming true and bigger than he, or Yoann, had ever imagined it.

His album is set to be released in August and there are more press events and interviews than he ever knew existed. Iker smirks at him every time they sit down to talk, a challenge from their first meeting. 

“They’re already calling you the French Tupac,” Iker says in amusement one day, over coffee and churros. 

“That’s a stretch,” Karim says with a small smile. He breaks off an edge of his churro and carefully dips it in chocolate. 

“Why? Believe in yourself, Karim,” the Santo de la Música says, reaching forward and lightly tapping Karim’s temple. “If you don’t buy your act, then they won’t either.”

 

Karim tries, but it’s hard. Sometimes, he wishes he could drop his phone into a fountain, but he keeps it and hopes Pipita will call. He doesn’t, because he’s still in Argentina. In the middle of the month, Karim receives a postcard from Buenos Aires.

> Hola from sunny Argentina!!! I’m trying to get tan so you look even paler next to me. I have at least a million stories, so I hope you’re ready to run your ass off, graso!!
> 
> Don’t forget me, por favor! xx
> 
> Bss, Pipa

He reads it with a crooked smile, shakes his head, and sticks it on his refrigerator where he sees it every morning.

 

Going home is lonely, but sometimes Sergio will text him and they’ll go to a concert together. Most of the time, he comes home to an empty house. Yoann will call too, but there’s no one to balance him out. Karim’s reminded of memories he left France to escape from, but there’s no Pipita to force him out of his head this time. 

He finds someone to fuck, occasionally, because there are more than enough women willing now and even some men. He thinks Sergio knows, but he also knows about Sergio, so they come to an unspoken understanding and say nothing at all. 

 

July passes and Karim misses France and he misses his parents and he misses Yoann, but he thinks he misses his morning runs and his neighbor more than anything else.

It’s a change. Or the beginning of one.

**august 2011.**

“Why are you staring like you’ve just seen a ghost?” Pipita grins at his front door at 6 in the morning. 

Karim’s wearing Real Madrid shorts and no shirt and rubbing his eyes in the most tired way possible. Pipita’s cheeks color, just a little, but he looks so genuinely pleased to see Karim that he doesn’t even flinch when the Argentine wraps him in a hug. 

“Hey, let’s go running,” Pipita says into his ear. Then he pulls back and, although he’s not Sergio, he kisses Karim on the cheek. “I missed you, Tupac.”

Karim rubs his nose and gives Pipita a wry smile. He’s already more awake than he’s been in days and he’s actually so happy that he can feel it in his chest. It’s a little embarrassing, so he ignores it.

“That’s a stretch,” he says, repeating to Pipita what he had said to Iker. 

“That’s what they’re calling you,” Pipita says, almost proudly. Then he pushes Karim in through his door. “Come on, get dressed, you’ve gotten fat over the summer without me.”

To which Karim replies, “I think your ass has grown bigger.”

To which Pipita replies, “Va te faire foutre” and Karim laughs, loudly. 

 

His album debuts at the top of the hip hop charts, both in Spain and in France. He’s almost so busy that he never sees Pipita, but he always gets a text, at the beginning of the day, “Hello, Tupac”, and at the end of the night, “Goodnight, Tupac”, and one in the middle of the day asking “I’m hungry, what should I eat?” 

He really can’t walk into a club now, in Spain or France, without hearing one of his songs. 

Surprisingly, it doesn’t remind him of Yoann anymore.  
Surprisingly, it does remind him of Pipita.

**october 2011.**

“Take a break,” Iker says, calling him in to his office one day. Karim’s tired, visibly so. He’s barely been home for weeks, although he’s more than well acquainted with Northern Spain now. He spent a full week in Barcelona and went to a game at the Camp Nou only to yell at Barcelona players out of pure habit now. He had called Pipita during half-time and had been advised to burn all of his clothes and take purifying showers after leaving the stadium. 

“What?” Karim asks, running a hand over his head. He looks confused because Iker’s never suggested anything like it to him before. 

“You’ve been touring since August. You’re going to collapse from exhaustion,” Iker says with a stern look. “Take a break, Karim.” 

Karim opens his mouth to protest, but Iker’s phone rings. He holds up a finger to motion, one minute, and answers.

“Who is it, Eva?”

Eva mutters someone’s name on the other end of the line and Iker’s ears tinge pink immediately. His lips twitch in a smile and he nods.

“Sure, I have time. Put him through.”

Karim raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. He gets up and Iker turns his head. 

“Hola, what can I do for you?” his voice softens, mouth still twitching. He flips through his calendar quickly and nods as though the other person can see. “No, I’m not doing anything tonight. Sure, why not.”

Karim leaves the office with a shake of his head. He knows who it is, of course. They both do. 

 

It happens slowly, gradually, although not nearly as excruciatingly. One day, Pipita catches him in his driveway. Karim has his sunglasses on and keys to his new Mercedes-Benz in his hand. He’s planning on stopping at the studio before meeting a few friends at a club, just for a night of fun. 

He barely reaches his car before Pipita’s hand is on his wrist. Karim looks up in surprise and Pipita’s swaying, just a little. He’s drunk.

“Don’t you have a game tomorrow?” Karim asks, softly. 

Pipita’s eyes are red and watery. He takes a moment to process the question and nods, laughing. It’s not a happy laugh. He sways strongly and Karim catches him by the shoulder just before he teeters onto him.

“Hold on.” He takes out his cell phone and dials in his friend’s number. “Hey. I won’t be able to make it tonight. Something’s come up. Tell Lass we’ll catch up next weekend.”

He pockets his cell phone and wraps an arm around Pipita’s waist. They manage to stumble through Pipita’s front door and onto his couch. 

“I just want to drink,” Pipita says, eyeing his liquor cabinet. “I just want to drink everything.”

Karim sighs and runs a hand through Pipita’s hair. 

“Not tonight, Pipa.” Karim turns on the television instead and they lean against one another and watch bad horror movies until Pipita falls asleep with his body tucked in next to Karim’s.

 

In the middle of October, Karim receives a phone call. He’s at the store with Pipita and Sergio, and eyeing different Louis Vuitton bags like he can tell the difference between any of them. 

“This is for—” he squints at it and the shape looks just like the shape of every other one. 

“Toiletries,” Sergio says, looking over from a man purse he’s eyeing. 

“Why do you need a Louis Vuitton purse for toiletries,” Karim says, raising an eyebrow. Behind Sergio, Pipita shakes his head vigorously, makes throat-slitting motions to try and make him shut up. He’s too late. 

“Is that a _real_ question?” Sergio gapes at Karim like he’s sprouted a third head to go with his second. “No, really. Karim. Hombre. What planet did you come from, didn’t your people _invent_ Louis Vuitton?”

Karim snorts. “No one invented Louis Vuitton, he was a person.”

“No one invented your face,” is Sergio’s answer because he is mature beyond his years. Pipita presses a hand against Sergio’s side and they have a silent argument through looks while Karim shakes his head and eyes a passport cover with the LV logo stamped across it. 

Sergio and Pipita move toward the luggage rack when Karim’s phone starts vibrating. 

“Hola, soy Karim,” Karim answers without looking at the caller ID. 

“So you are Spanish now,” a thickly French-accented voice laughs in English. 

Karim blinks in surprise.

“Samir?”

A few rows across, Pipita must hear him, because he looks up immediately.

“Bonjour, bouffon. Me manquer?” « _Hello, buffoon. Miss me?_ » Samir laughs at the other end.

“Ouais,” Karim says, smiling. He turns away from Pipita and Sergio, nods at one of the store assistants and steps out into the chill Madrid air. “Il a été un moment. Quoi de neuf?” « _It’s been a while. What’s up?_ »

“Toujours le meme. Tu ne téléphones jamais, idiot.” « _The same as usual. You never call me, idiot_ » Samir says. He sounds happy on the other end. He sounds like he’s genuinely pleased to speak to Karim. “Es-tu trop célèbre pour de vieux amis, mainentant?” « _Are you too famous for old friends now?_ »

Karim laughs and shakes his head. 

“Non, Samir. Jamais.” « _No Samir, never._ »

“Bon.” « _Good_ » Samir says. He pauses. And then he says, “Puis, viens me rendre visite á Manchester.” « _Then come visit me in Manchester._ »

 

He has no reason not to and Iker’s more than supportive when he hears about it.

“Get out of this country, we don’t want you here anymore,” is his curt and vaguely amused answer when Karim calls and tells him. 

He’s friends with Pipita and Sergio, so he’s more than used to the abuse. He rolls his eyes and packs his bags. It’s only for a week, but Pipita comes to relax on his couch the night before his flight anyway.

“Is this a good idea, Karim?” he asks casually. He’s lying on Karim’s bed, reading a comic book while Karim stuffs toiletries into his new Louis Vuitton bag. 

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Karim says. “There’s no reason it shouldn’t be.” 

There’s also every reason it should be, but that, he doesn’t admit to himself just yet. 

“Don’t get hurt,” is what Pipita says before he leaves the next morning. He gives Karim a kiss on his cheek and Karim frowns all the way to the airport. 

 

His week in Manchester is lovely, actually. He finds that he doesn’t like English football as much as Spanish or French football, but English fans are at least three times as loud and twice as passionate. Samir makes him buy a Manchester City scarf and Karim makes a face as his oldest friend wraps it around his neck. 

Samir’s at training a lot, but he drags Karim to it when he can and there are headlines about “Karim Benzema, Manchester City Fan” and pictures of him shaking hands with players he barely knows, let alone can understand. They spend their free time walking the streets of Manchester, ducking into local restaurants to eat horrible British food, and talking so fast in French that they can barely understand themselves. 

It’s just like it was before, too much food, too much laughing, too much to say and not enough time to say it in. Karim realizes he had forgotten, in all of this time, he had never realized that Samir had been there for him all along, that he was Karim’s oldest friend and for a reason. 

They lie on their stomachs and play FIFA while waiting for pizza to be delivered. Samir’s shoulder is pressed tightly against Karim’s and both of them are yelling in rapid French as Samir—Manchester City—tries to score against Karim—Real Madrid. Silva passes to Agüero, who shoots on target, but Antonio Adan saves at the last minute for Karim. He whoops as Sergio Ramos starts the counter attack that Xabi Alonso moves through. Samir scowls and curses as his defenders try to tackle Alonso, but Karim jams buttons and Alonso flicks the ball over Clichy’s head to Higuaín’s feet. Higuaín then takes off and Karim doesn’t think he’s ever mashed the buttons quite so hard. Joe Hart dives the wrong way and Higuaín smashes the ball in past him.

Karim abandons all pretence as he jumps to his feet, yelling in victory. 

“Fuck yessssssssssssssssssss,” he cackles and Samir’s on his feet too, yelling about cheating and demanding a rematch. “C’est Pipita, nous pouvons jouer á encore, mais il sera toujours marquer.” « _It’s Pipita, we can play again, but he’ll always score._ »

“Pipita?” Samir asks, confused. 

Karim colors, slightly. He hadn’t even realized.

“Higuaín,” he corrects himself. “C’est Higuaín et il sera toujours marquer.” « _It’s Higuaín and he will always score._ »

 

At the end of the week, Karim is genuinely sorry to leave. Samir takes him to the airport and hugs him before he boards for his flight. 

“Come again to visit,” Samir says to him, pressing a kiss to either cheek. 

“Non,” Karim says and then smiles widely this time. “You come to visit Madrid.”

Samir smiles at him wryly.

“And then I will meet this Pipita?”

Karim’s phone vibrates just then with a message: _Have a safe flight, come back to me in one fat piece!!!! bss Pipa_

Karim grins and shakes his head. “Et puis, tu vas recontrer El Pipita.” « _And then, you will meet Pipita._ »

**november 2011.**

When it happens, he’s not surprised, is the thing. Neither is Pipita, but Karim knows, better than anyone, how that feels. It’s a hopeless situation, love. It’s irrational at the best of times, so Karim can’t account for what it is at the worst of times. 

Pipita stares at his phone helplessly and Karim draws him into his bedroom and tucks him into bed. He’s never been good at taking care of anyone, but he sits with Pipita and talks to him in quiet tones until he doesn’t sound so heartbroken. 

“You’re still friends,” Karim says quietly. He rubs a thumb over the back of Pipita’s hand. Pipita stares up at his ceiling in depression. He hasn’t eaten anything all day and if that isn’t a sign, then nothing is. 

“I don’t want to be friends,” Pipita says listlessly. Then he blinks. He draws his hands to his eyes and presses his palms tight against his eyelids. “Jesus, fuck, shit. Fuck, I don’t _want_ to just be friends. Fucking shit.”

“It’s my fault,” Karim says. “I shouldn’t have introduced them.”

Pipita lets out a strangled sort of cry and shakes his head.

“Shut the fuck up, Karim. It isn’t your fault. It’s not even his fault. It’s the way fucking love works.”

Karim feels it settle into his chest, a tight kind of horror that makes it hard to breathe.

“Fuck, Pipa,” he says. “Did you love him?”

“Yes,” Pipita says. He sighs. “No. Fuck. I don’t know.”

His voice sounds watery, almost choked. Fucking shit. 

Karim eases himself onto the bed, turns his body to face Pipita’s. Pipita turns and faces him, scoots closer until he’s closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the top of Karim’s chest. 

“Fuck, this sucks a lot,” Pipita groans. He grasps at Karim’s shirt almost blindly and Karim can feel Pipita’s warmth against his body. He rests a hand on Pipita’s back and holds him close. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable. It feels effortless, something he seamlessly does without thought. 

“I know,” Karim says, with a low laugh. “God, don’t I know.”

“Fuck, can you just—can you not?”

“Not what?”

“See him anymore,” Pipita says. Karim feels a wet warmth prickle at the top of his shirt, but he doesn’t mention it. “Can you not see Yoann anymore.”

Karim shushes Pipita, although his heart twists in his chest. He says nothing, but Pipita shakes his head and lifts it so that Karim can see his face. His eyes are red and wet. 

“I’m serious,” Pipita says. “I lost Sergio, I don’t want to lose you too.” 

Karim shakes his head. He leans in close. He thinks, I could kiss him. I could kiss my best friend. 

He doesn’t. 

He presses a kiss to Pipita’s forehead instead.

 

Yoann texts him in the middle of November.

>   
> **From:** Yoann Gourcuff
> 
> Samir m'a dit que tu lui a rendu visite sans me dire, trou du cul. Quand vas-tu revenir à Lyon?
> 
> « _Samir told me that you visited him without telling me, asshole. When will you come back to Lyon?_ »

Pipita knows, but he doesn’t say anything.

He replies,

>   
> **To:** Yoann Gourcuff
> 
> À Noël.  
>  « _Christmas._ »

**one week before christmas.**

“Are you going home for Christmas?” Karim asks. He checks in his luggage as Pipita leans against the ticket counter, playing Angry Birds on his phone. He scowls intensely at his screen for a few minutes, swiping his fingers multiple times in order to pass whatever level he’s on. 

“Probably,” Pipita mutters. He glares at a yellow bird that is being useless for him. “I haven’t booked my tickets yet.”

“You’re so fucking slow,” Karim says. He smiles at the lady behind the counter and takes his boarding pass from her. “Gracias, señora.”

“I’ll book it after the game,” Pipita shrugs. “Aha!” 

He croons at his phone as he passes the level on Angry Birds and then presses the home button and locks the screen before putting it away.

“So I won’t see you until after the New Year?” Karim says, frowning.

“Yeah, I guess not.” Pipita frowns as well. He looks troubled, which is exactly how Karim feels. 

They stand for a moment, looking at each other hesitantly. It’s strange, Karim thinks, because they’re going to see each other again soon, but he doesn’t really want to say goodbye. 

“Well, give me a call before you leave,” Karim says with a half-smile. 

Pipita laughs something that isn’t completely genuine. He leans forward for a hug and Karim lets him. He thinks it’s going to be a one-armed hug, but Pipita wraps both arms around him and pulls him close. 

Karim flushes and feels feeling flutter in his chest. 

“Joyeux Noël, Benz.” « _Merry Christmas, Benz_ » Pipita whispers in his ear. And, “Tu vas me manquer.” « _I’m going to miss you._ »

Karim swallows and presses a quick kiss to Pipita’s cheek.

“Feliz Navidad, Pipa.” « _Merry Christmas, Pipa_ » he says. And, “Te echaré de menos también.” « _I’m going to miss you too._ »

 

He always forgets how much he misses Lyon until he flies back in. His city is beautiful, it sprawls in every direction, but contains itself in a way that is distinctly French. Sometimes, he finds it easier to breathe here than in Madrid, finds the language easier to swallow, although he finds himself accidentally speaking Spanish sometimes out of habit. 

His parents and siblings are delighted to have him home, ply him with food and stories and so much laughter and love that he doesn’t stop to feel sad once. He thinks he’s growing tubby again, with the amount of bread and rice and merguez his mother feeds him, simply because she knows it’s his favorite. His family doesn’t necessarily celebrate Christmas, but he and his siblings set up a little tree in the corner and string it with lights and baubles. His father gives them A Look and prays for his soul. His mother shakes her head and feeds him more merguez. 

He’s at the market, picking up last minute food for his mother. She’s agreed to make a French-Algerian pre-Christmas dinner, which his father likes to refer to as just, dinner. He’s laughing and putting fresh bread into his bag when a shop window catches his attention. There’s a brightly colored mannequin dressed in ripped jeans and a tacky graphic t-shirt with Gérard Philipe’s face on it. It reminds him of Pipita’s tacky t-shirt collection of Hollywood legends.

He’s staring at the window and contemplating getting it as a Christmas present when he hears a familiar voice over his shoulder.

“Karim?” 

Just the sound of his voice jars him. He recognizes it before he registers who he is, so Karim’s left blinking slowly when a hand presses against his shoulder and he’s spun around. Yoann grins into his face before pulling him into a hug. 

“Quand as-tu venir? Tu ne me dis pas!” « _When did you come? You never told me!_ »

Karim isn’t expecting him, he isn’t expecting that overwhelmingly familiar scent or the sight of the only face that still makes his heart beat erratically, even after all of these years. It takes him by surprise, stills the breath in his chest until he’s stuttering and his hand betrays him, finds the small of Yoann’s back automatically, even after all of these years. 

“Yoann, bonjour,” Karim manages a shaky laugh. “Quelle surprise.”

Yoann extracts himself from the embrace. His eyes are shining bright in a way that Karim is so familiar with—it’s genuine. Yoann is genuinely happy to see him. It takes his breath away.

He puts a palm against Karim’s face and Karim nearly suffocates. 

“Viens avec moi ce soir. Nous devons rattraper le temps perdu.” « _Come out with me tonight. We must catch up._ »

Karim almost says no. Karim _should_ say no. 

He doesn’t, of course. Because it’s still Yoann, even after all of these years.

 

They have dinner together. It’s at a nice restaurant because they’re adults now, each earning their own living, and eating loaves of bread and old cheese with cheap bottles of wine in Yoann’s kitchen isn’t nearly as fun as it used to be. They pick a café near the more glamorous part of town. They can tell when heads turn, of course, and people aren’t particularly subtle with their camera phones, although no one approaches them for autographs. It’s cold outside, so they file into the restaurant, scarves wrapped tightly around their necks and expensive, woolen coats, cool to the touch from the slicing wind, pulled close to their bodies. 

Yoann picks a table by a window and offers to take Karim’s coat. Karim feels strange about it, but he lets Yoann take it, lets Yoann seat them both, lets Yoann order the wine on both of their behalves. 

Yoann orders steak and Karim orders fish with a fancy salad. The entire time, the other man can’t take his eyes off of Karim and it makes Karim feel uncomfortable, as though he’s been put on display. 

“You’ve changed,” Yoann says with a smile. His Lyonnais accent is perfectly clear. Karim had forgotten that variation, that lilt to his words that used to be second nature to him. The waiter brings them their wine and pours it into Yoann’s glass first. He offers it to Yoann who swirls it gently and then makes a show of taking a taste. “Parfait. Merci.”

The waiter nods and fills Yoann’s glass and then Karim’s. They both thank him and he walks away to wait for their orders.

“What do you mean?” Karim asks nervously. He doesn’t feel any different. He’s still the same, idiotic boy from years ago, who was and still is in love with his best friend.

“I don’t know what it is,” Yoann says with a smile. His eyes seem to study Karim. “It’s not the fame. Maybe it’s confidence. I don’t know.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Karim frowns.

“Not necessarily,” Yoann’s smile widens. He tilts he glass toward Karim in toast. “A toast?”

“I don’t drink,” Karim says, looking at his own glass with a frown.

“Yes you do,” Yoann says, simply.

And it’s just like that, really. He does, Karim thinks. Of course he does. He fingers the stem of his glass nervously and raises it.

“To old friends,” Yoann says. He clinks the tip of his glass against Karim’s. 

“To old friends,” Karim murmurs. He takes a small sip of his wine, but he’s mostly watching Yoann drink his own. 

 

They brace the cold to call for a cab. Yoann lives close by, but he has the money, so he wants to spend it. They seek refuge in the heat of the taxi compartment and Yoann sits too close to him. Karim’s face is tinged pink from the cold, but when Yoann’s hand rests on his thigh, he feels heat crawl up his neck. 

By the time they get out at Yoann’s house, he’s already dizzy. He thinks, it’s been so many years and he still can’t function without him. 

 

Yoann makes no pretenses, really. He closes the door behind him and offers to take Karim’s coat. He hangs it on a stand in the hallway and takes Karim’s hand almost immediately. His fingers are long and familiar in between Karim’s own and sometime, in between forgetting how to breathe and letting his mind reel from the familiarity, he notes how different they are from Pipita’s. Pipita’s hands are larger, squarer. Yoann’s are dainty in comparison. 

“Are you cold?” Yoann asks. Karim shakes his head. “There’s dessert in the kitchen.” 

He leads Karim to the kitchen. It’s spacious, clean to a fault with large granite counters and an enormous, shiny, metallic sink. 

“I have chocolate cake and chocolate-covered strawberries,” Yoann says. He lets go of Karim’s hand to look in the refrigerator. “Do you have a preference?”

“Not really,” Karim mutters. In his front pocket, he feels his phone vibrate. He thinks he should check it, but he’s barely capable of functioning at all, let alone having independent thought. 

“Mmm,” Yoann says. He looks particularly thoughtful. His eyelashes are long and his thin fingers drum on the refrigerator door. Karim has to look away and remind himself how to breathe, because his heart is beating so fast that he’s liable to heart failure any moment. “Chocolate cake, I think.”

Yoann takes out the platter with the cake on it and sets it on the counter. He opens his cabinet to take out plates, sets a piece on each, and then carefully places a fork per plate. He puts the platter back in the refrigerator and turns to Karim. 

“Here, eat up,” he says with a smile. “You’ve gotten too thin.”

Karim can’t eat. He’s likely to vomit if he even talks, let alone puts something in his mouth. Yoann talks happily while he finishes his slice. He hoists himself up onto the counter and tells Karim about everything—about playing for Lyon, about his new teammates, about the Champions League, about women he’s been seeing for the past few months. Karim barely hears a word. 

When Yoann’s done with his story, Karim’s still barely touched his chocolate cake. It doesn’t matter, really.

“Hey,” Yoann says softly. Karim looks up and it’s there, that familiar look. The one that he’s always been so powerless against. “C’mere.” 

Karim’s phone vibrates in his pocket again, but he ignores it. He steps forward near Yoann and just like that, he finds Yoann’s legs wrapped around his waist, his body pulled close immediately. 

“I’ve missed you, Karim,” Yoann says, his face tucked into Karim’s neck. He has one hand on Karim’s chest and the other pressed hotly to the back of his neck. Karim barely has an inch to move. They’re so close that he can feel Yoann’s heart beating against his own chest. “It’s been too long.”

“Too long for what?” Karim mutters. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he rests them on the counter, to either side of Yoann’s slim hips. That makes the other man croon and move into him more. When he starts kissing from the back of Karim’s jaw, he feels bursts of electricity spritzing in his chest and near the top of his spine. 

Yoann laughs gently into his ear.

“You know what I want.” 

The problem is that he doesn’t. The problem is that he’s never really known what Yoann wants. 

“We’re not gay,” Karim mumbles, repeating those words that were said to him, so very long ago.

Yoann kisses up Karim’s jaw and stops just underneath his jawline to suck at the skin there. Karim hisses, feels aroused despite himself. 

“Of course we’re not, babe,” Yoann laughs again. He moves his hand down from Karim’s chest to his belt buckle. “We just have needs.”

 

Yoann has him pressed against the opposite counter, the sharp edges digging into his hips. Karim’s pulled Yoann’s shirt up over his head and is moving his hands down the now completely toned planes of Yoann’s chest and abdomen. There are muscles there that weren’t there when they were younger. Yoann’s shoved Karim’s jacket off his shoulders, has one hand up his shirt and the other working on unzipping his pants. He’s attached to Karim’s neck again while Karim’s grappling with Yoann’s hips, trying to remind himself he knows how to do this, that it’s just as natural as it always has been.

Yoann moans hotly into Karim’s ear and he grinds up against him. It’s meant to be hot and it is, to a certain extent. Karim’s head is spinning and he can’t think past Yoann dragging his pants down and moving his hands all over Karim’s body. 

“You’re all grown up,” Yoann says into Karim’s ear and then tugs on his earlobe with his teeth. “God, I’ve never wanted you so bad.”

“You’ve never wanted me at all.” He doesn’t know why he says it or where it comes from. He says it before he realizes it, as though the words had settled on his tongue a long time ago and had been waiting ever since. Yoann stops mid-grind, his entire body freezes. He slowly pulls away and looks Karim in the face.

“Excuse me?”

Karim feels his throat dry and suddenly his arousal is killed, just like that. Yoann’s eyes are hardening, they’re cold in a way Karim knows only too well. His face is a little flushed and his hair is sticking up in the way that it does just before and after they have sex. 

“You’ve never wanted me at all,” Karim repeats. He laughs a little this time. In his pocket, his phone buzzes again. 

It helps. He can’t think clearly yet, but he blinks because it’s becoming so clear, so fast. 

“Fuck,” Karim laughs. He wipes at his neck, where Yoann’s left a wet, warm mark. “Fuck, Yoann.”

“What are you saying?” Yoann’s eyes are so narrowed that they’re barely slits. 

“I’m not—” Karim shakes his head incredulously. He shoves up his pants and zips them up. He runs a hand over his smooth head. “I love you, did you know that?”

Yoann freezes again. His expression is unreadable, caught in between anger, horror, and some kind of understanding.

“What?” 

“You knew that,” Karim says. “You’ve known since we were _little_ , Yoann. I’ve always been in love with you, since the first day we fucking met.”

Yoann shakes his head and looks distinctly uncomfortable. He licks his lips. 

“Karim, I don’t—”

“You’ve taken advantage of me because you’ve known that you _could_. That’s shit. Fuck Yoann, you’re my best fucking friend, how could you do that?”

“Karim—”

Karim looks at Yoann and shakes his head. 

“What would you do,” Karim says softly. “If Samir walked through that door?”

Yoann’s face drains of color. He blanches and his frame sways a little.

“He has nothing to do with—”

“Tell me. If Samir opened that door and walked through, what the fuck would you do?”

Yoann doesn’t look confident anymore. In fact, he looks a bit nauseated.

“Samir and I aren’t together, Karim,” he says slowly. 

“Not because you don’t want to be.”

“We tried. It didn’t work.” 

Karim smiles sadly and shakes his head. 

“I’ve known Samir my entire life,” he says. He stretches his arms above his head, thinks he can finally feel some tension leaving his shoulders. Finally, after all of these years. “He’s not gay, is he?”

Yoann laughs lowly. He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head.

“No. He tried, for me. But he never was.”

“I’m sorry,” Karim says. He means it, genuinely. “I know how that feels.”

Yoann covers his face with his hands and blows out a deep breath. He shakes his head this time and his shoulders slump. Karim thinks that for the first time since he’s known Yoann, the other man looks like an actual human being.

“I think I’ve been waiting a long time to hear you tell me that,” he says. He looks up at Karim and he looks sad. He’s not a bad person, never has been. 

“Tell you what?” Karim asks.

Yoann laughs and shakes his head. 

“No, Karim. I’ve been waiting a long time to hear you say no.”

 

It’s strange, how fast things can change. It’s easier to breathe after that. He and Yoann put their clothes back on and Karim offers to leave, but Yoann shakes his head. 

“You’re my oldest friend, imbécil,” he says. He gives him a wolfish smile and this time it isn’t even seductive. “I might always be in love with Samir, but you’re my oldest friend.”

They sit on Yoann’s couch and turn on the TV. They don’t really watch anything that’s on. They talk and catch up this time— _really_ catch up. Yoann warms up a bowl of popcorn and turns the fire on in the fireplace. It’s absolutely cold outside, but they’re warm inside and for the first time since he can remember, Karim and Yoann talk with absolutely no reservations and no pretenses. 

“What’s he like?” Yoann asks after a while. He’s stretched out on the couch so that his feet are in Karim’s lap. Karim’s pecking at pieces of popcorn. 

“Who?” Karim asks. 

“Higuaín.” 

Karim looks surprised, but Yoann shakes his head. 

“I’m not stupid. You’ve been avoiding me since you moved, but I haven’t been doing the same.” Yoann nudges Karim’s stomach with a socked toe. “Tell me about him. I’ve only ever played with him on the field.” 

It feels weird to describe Pipita to Yoann, but he does. He describes their morning runs, the time they spend together eating or watching TV or going out with Sergio. He tells Yoann about Sergio, about how he and Pipita were together.

“Yeah, I kind of guessed,” Yoann says. He reaches forward and takes a handful of popcorn.

“You what?”

“Are you kidding me?” Yoann snorts. “They can’t keep their hands off of each other after celebrations. I’ve watched Madrid for years, they’ve always been the same. I thought they were either fucking or completely fucking oblivious.”

“They’re not together anymore, though,” Karim says. 

“No?” Yoann raises an eyebrow. And then he grins. “Big surprise.”

“It’s not like that, asshole,” Karim snorts. “Sergio found someone else.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“My producer,” Karim answers with a wry smile.

“Iker Casillas?” Yoann’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair. “Sergio Ramos bagged the biggest name in music?”

He lets out a low whistle that makes Karim laugh. 

“I guess they’re both hot in their own way,” Karim says thoughtfully.

“They’re not your type,” Yoann says. 

“I have a type?”

“You have a type.”

“What’s my type?” Karim asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Idiots,” is Yoann’s answer. “Your type is idiots.”

 

When he leaves Yoann’s house that night, he feels strange. It feels like the end of an era, although Yoann assures him that that is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard.

“We never had an era, Karim,” Yoann snorts while Karim puts on his jacket. “What we had was fucked up.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you,” Karim mutters.

“Shut up,” Yoann scowls. “I already said I was sorry.” 

That’s when Karim thinks to check his pocket. His phone isn’t vibrating anymore, but he remembers that it had kept going off multiple times earlier. He checks the screen and there are multiple text messages—all from Pipita.

>   
> **From:** Pipita
> 
> It’s snowing here???? Since when does it snow in Madrid on Christmas???
> 
> **From:** Pipita
> 
> Fuck fuckfu ckfkofkosdfkokf I think my flight’s cancelled???? 
> 
> **From:** Pipita
> 
> No really who cancels flights on Christmas fufmkcfuckufkc
> 
> **From:** Pipita
> 
> omg I really wanted Mama’s Christmas dinner :-(
> 
> **From:** Pipita
> 
> Don’t say I told you so!!!!!!!
> 
> **From:** Pipita
> 
> No ok you can say I told you so if you answer me fucker!!!!!
> 
> **From:** Pipita
> 
> Are you ignoring me??????????
> 
> **From:** Pipita
> 
> KARIM TUPAC BENZEMA CAN YOU PLEASE ANSWER YOUR TEXT MESSAGES JESUS CRISTO ON A STICK WITH SERGIO’S BRIGHT GREEN PANTS ON 
> 
> **From:** Pipita
> 
> I h8 u
> 
> **From:** Pipita
> 
> No I don’t can you text me back now?????? :-(
> 
> **From:** Pipita
> 
> I don’t want 2b alone on Christmas blahhhhhhhhhh
> 
> **From:** Pipita
> 
> Fine be that way I’m going 2 marathon Lord of the Rings and eat all of the food in ur fridge bye!!!!!!!!!!

Karim reads all of his messages and stares at them. Then he promptly bursts into laughter.

“Higuaín?” Yoann says wryly. 

“I think he’s on drugs,” Karim says uncertainly. 

“Mon dieu, get out of my doorway and go spend your Christmas where you’re wanted.”

Karim looks up at Yoann, unsure how to take his comment. He raises an eyebrow. Yoann rolls his eyes. He doesn’t mean ill at all.

“Tell Higuaín that I say hello. And that I’m going to kick his ass if he ever plays us in the Champions League again,” he says. He pulls Karim And then, just before he shoves Karim out of his house and closes the door on his face, “Joyeux Nöel. And call me this time, motherfucker.”

**december 23rd.**

Madrid is a lot different from what Karim remembers thinking it would be. He remembers his first days in the Spanish capital, how overwhelmingly large and loud he found it, although he’d lived in Paris for many years too. He remembers his distaste for Spanish food, how frustrated he would become with the language, how many times he questioned his decision to move when he got stuck in rushes of traffic in the morning or in the afternoon or in the evening or, really, any time people were awake. 

He doesn’t remember ever finding it majestic.

Madrid at Christmas, he thinks, is the very definition of the word. 

Snow glints in thick blankets on the sidewalk. It blankets rooftops and storefronts and the white sparkles under the dark sky. There are lights strung across the city, different colored Christmas lights that outline buildings and wrap around trees and crisscross across streets until every corner is lit up with a kind of spark he doesn’t remember seeing anywhere else.

His flight gets in late at night and he makes it through Barajas without anyone noticing. He catches a late cab and watches as it crawls through the snow-covered streets. 

He’s not in a hurry, not particularly, but he thinks that when he has the time to watch Madrid pass him by, it’s not so much a city that isn’t magical, but it’s a city that takes time to come to love. 

He thinks it’s been long enough, that maybe it’s time he finally falls out of love with his childhood and falls in love with something bigger than himself.

**christmas eve.**

He’s wearing snowboots, sweatpants, a Real Madrid sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head, and a Manchester City scarf. He knocks on Pipita’s door at precisely 6:00 AM. 

At first, the other man doesn’t hear. Karim snorts and knocks on his door again. When Pipita still doesn’t answer, he bangs on it more and more obnoxiously until the door flings open and Pipita is standing there, in sweatpants and no shirt, hair disheveled, and a scowl on his face.

“ _What_?” he spits out before realizing who it is. He stops himself and blinks. “Oh.”

“Hey,” Karim says with a grin. “Want to go running?”

Pipita stares blankly at him and then at the snow piled up absolutely everywhere. 

He snorts.

“No,” he says. 

“You’re an asshole,” he says. 

They look at each other for a moment. Karim is flushed from the cold and Pipita is just rumpled enough from sleep. His eyes are still red and he moves to rub them. Karim reaches forward and catches his wrist. They have a moment and it’s the silliest thing, the way his chest pounds, as though it had never known anyone else to begin with. 

They have a moment and it’s the silliest thing, because then Karim is tugging Pipita close to him and Pipita is laughing and their lips meet in a way that they were supposed to _months_ ago. Karim’s hands find their way to Pipita’s face and Pipita makes a little noise and he’s still laughing, they’re both still incredulous, but Karim thinks he can hear both of their hearts beating in between them. He’s giddy and flushes brighter and Pipita fumbles their kiss because neither of them know what to do yet. Finally, one of them manages to hold the other still and they stand in Pipita’s doorway and kiss, they finally fucking kiss, and snow drifts in and Pipita’s skin turns pink from the cold. 

When they break apart, they’re both still laughing.

“You came back all the way from France just to do that?” Pipita asks.

“You refused to go all the way to Argentina, just to make sure I did that?” Karim asks. 

Pipita colors and scowls. His face is too bright for him to fool anyone, let alone Karim.

“You’re an asshole,” he says. And then, “Va te faire foutre.”

And then he grabs Karim by the sweatshirt and drags him inside.

* * *

**christmas.**

“Sergio wants to know,” Pipita says. He has his phone in his hand and he’s texting the other man rapidly. 

“Know what?” Karim’s head is in Pipita’s lap. The television is on and he’s watching some Christmas movie that’s been dubbed in Spanish. The dubbing is terrible. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or not.

“How you are in bed,” Pipita grins.

Karim nearly falls off the couch, although Pipita’s arm encircles his waist to make sure he doesn’t. His hand lingers on Karim’s hip. It feels nice.

“Have you told him we haven—”

“Shhhhhh,” Pipita says. The grin that spreads across his face isn’t one that Karim’s seen yet. It’s happy, but in a different way. It makes his chest flutter. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

His own phone vibrates and Karim checks it while shaking his head.

>   
> **From:** Samir Nasri
> 
> Have you slept with him yet?

And then another one—

>   
> **From:** Yoann Gourcuff 
> 
> How is he in bed?

Karim colors while snorting. He presses the lock button until his phone powers off.

“People need to mind their own business,” is his declaration.

“The people we know?” Pipita snorts. He finishes his text to Sergio and shuts down his phone too. He puts it on the side table. “Not a fucking chance.”

Karim shakes his head slightly in response. They don’t say anything for a while. He’s content this way, just happy to be close to Pipita. His hand rests on Pipita’s arm and Pipita has a hand on his stomach. They watch whatever Christmas movie is on the TV until the credits start rolling. 

“Hey, are you hungry?” Pipita asks. 

“I’m always hungry,” Karim answers. 

Still, they don’t move. Pipita looks at Karim nervously until Karim raises an eyebrow.

“Is this okay?” the other man asks, finally. “We’re sitting on my couch, watching a movie. I mean, I’m no Yoann, I’m not really charming or dashing, I like to party and I like to play football and I like to sit around in my sweatpants and watch shitty movies on television.” 

Karim looks at Pipita and blinks. He lets out a low laugh and then pulls himself up to a sitting position. 

“Pipa, I’ve spent ten years of my life in love with Yoann,” he says. He shakes his head. “I don’t want another Yoann. I kind of just—”

“Just what?” Pipita asks suspiciously.

Karim snorts and colors. He shrugs.

“I’m not really charming or dashing. I like to make up raps and I like to lose at FIFA and I like to sit around in my sweatpants and watch shitty movies on the television.” He grins and shrugs again. “I don’t want another Yoann. I kind of just want you.”

Pipita looks at him the same way Yoann looked at Samir, the same way Karim looked at Yoann. He looks at him the same way Karim had always hoped someone would. It’s embarrassing, but he doesn’t really care. 

They both lean in close and when they kiss, Karim can feel his heart stuttering in his chest. It’s a new feeling, because this time there are no chains attached. Pipita wrinkles his face as he pulls away and colors.

“You make me want to do that a lot,” he says. “It’s a problem.” 

“Why is that a problem?” Karim asks.

Pipita snorts and shoves Karim until he falls back on the couch cushions. Then he crawls over him, pins Karim’s shoulders to the back. 

“Because, _Tupac_ , I’m really fucking hungry and when I’m hungry and all I want to do is kiss you, _it’s a fucking problem_.”

Someone above them, a mistletoe dangles inconspicuously. 

Karim looks up past Pipita’s threatening face and snorts.

“You did that on purpose.”

“What’s your fucking point, Frenchy.”

“I didn’t have one,” Karim grins. He rests one hand on Pipita’s waist and curls another one into his shirt. Pipita leans down and kisses him, once for the mistletoe, twice for the second mistletoe, and a third time just because he wants to. “Hey, what if we kiss and then eat?”

Pipita considers this.

“Yeah, okay. As long as I get to eat.”

 

“Joyeux Nöel,” Pipita whispers into Karim’s ear later that night. They lie together under the covers, the thick comforter keeping them warm and close together. 

Karim wrinkles his face. He smiles.

“Feliz Navidad.”

* * *

**after. (new year’s eve.) (december 2011.)**

“It’s a New Year’s tradition,” Sergio insists. They’re at Sergio’s, because where else would they be? Iker’s already been force-fed more drinks than his constitution allows for. He’s rosy-cheeked and grinning more than usual. He has his arms around Sergio, who’s leaning back into him. 

Sergio looks different. He looks happy, settled. He’s gesturing widely, larger than his body, because he’s Sergio Ramos and every point he makes has to be a gesture larger than his being. 

“According to who?” Karim asks. He eats a mini cupcake and raises an eyebrow. Pipita’s raiding the fridge next to him. 

“The entire fucking world, Benzema, what century are you living in?” 

Iker presses a kiss behind Sergio’s ear and then unwinds his arms. 

“You two are gross,” Pipita announces once he emerges from behind the refrigerator.

“I’m drunk,” Iker says, apologetically. 

“Shhhh,” Sergio shushes and hands him another drink. “Drink this, it’ll be good for you.”

Karim’s heard that before. He snorts. 

“What are we talking about?” Pipita opens a Coke and leans against Karim. Karim’s leaning against the kitchen counter. Pipita snakes one arm around Karim’s waist. They knock shoulders. 

“Apparently Ramos here has a tradition for us.”

“What is this, couple’s therapy?” Pipita snorts. He downs half of his can of Coke. 

“Are we on a double date?” Iker asks. His eyes are glazed over. It’s obvious how drunk and confused he is.

“Shhhhh Iker, just drink up,” Sergio says, patting Iker on the arm. He crosses his arms and looks both Pipita and Karim in the eyes. “I’m going to kick you out of my house.” 

“We brought the alcohol,” Pipita counters.

“I’m going to lock you in a room with me and Iker and make you watch us have sex,” Sergio addends.

Both Pipita and Karim visibly blanch. 

“So what’s this tradition?” 

Sergio smirks. 

“You have to kiss at midnight,” Sergio says, gesturing, again. “Right at midnight. You count down and then you kiss.”

“At midnight?” Karim says.

“At midnight,” Sergio confirms.

“Well that’s pointless, I could kiss Karim right now if I wanted to,” Pipita says. Then he moves to prove his point, but Karim holds up a hand and Pipita’s face mashes into that instead. 

“I don’t want to watch Ramos have sex,” Karim says. “Ever.”

“Oh he’s not that bad at it,” Pipita says and Sergio winks at him from across the kitchen. 

Next to Sergio, Iker’s head slumps onto his shoulder. 

“Hey, babe,” Sergio says brightly. “Out of beer?”

“Yes.” Iker looks positively morose. 

“There’s more in the living room, come on.” Sergio takes Iker by the shoulder and steers him into the living room.

Karim is about to follow them when Pipita stops him with a hand on his hip.

“Yeah?”

“One before midnight?” Pipita asks with a smile. Karim puts both hands on Pipita’s waist and presses him until he’s back against the counter. He kisses him thoroughly until their mouths are swollen and they’re both flushed and out of breath. He pulls back and he thinks it’s been a year and he’s never seen Pipita look so happy. 

He presses a kiss to Pipita’s jaw and Pipita runs a hand over the smooth skin of his head. They look at each other, hover close and touch just enough, but not too much. It’s a moment. They’re completely at peace, completely right for each other.

So, of course, Sergio has to ruin it all.

“ _I know it doesn’t take that long to find your way out of the kitchen_ ,” Sergio yells at them from the living room. “ _Neither of you are Chori. Stop making out, you both make me sick._ ” 

 

It’s December 2011 and the clock is ticking down. It’s a strange feeling, the shift of an entire life or two hearts clicking into place. A year ago, Karim remembers his heart shattering on the floor of a Christmas party, remembers drinking until he threw up on the ground and Samir had to come find him, had to take care of him for the rest of the night while Yoann watched jealously. 

A year ago, Karim remembers being so fully, pathetically, hopelessly in love with his best friend, a boy who had never been right for him, a boy who had been wrong for him in all of the right ways and right for him in all of the wrong ways.

It’s 11:50 on December 2011 and the seconds are ticking down. It starts at 60 and moves closer and closer until there’s only a hairsbreadth left. 

10  
9  
8  
7  
6  
5  
4  
3  
2  
1—

**january 2012.**

It’s January 2012. 

Snow drifts outside in a city that isn’t his, but could be. 

Inside, Karim frames Pipita’s face and Pipita places his hand above Karim’s heart. They both lean forward and kiss.


End file.
